lights will guide you home
by combeferring
Summary: In the South, Sansa has promised herself to trust no-one, especially not the Imp —- Sansa/Tyrion, AU.


**warning—**very AU!

* * *

**lights will guide you home  
**sansa/tyrion

* * *

Sharing a wedding bed is nothing close to how Sansa had imagined it. Mainly because she had envisioned the royal bedchamber she would share with Joffrey and how they would wake together, break their fast together and he would don his crown before going about his duties as King. Over her time in King's Landing, Sansa had become more resigned to the fact this was not how it would be—she would be more likely to be woken with a stinging slap than anything else, but it would still be Joffrey she gave her maidenhood to, it would be his bedchambers, his face she saw in the mornings and one day she would be Queen.

But then she became a Lannister, not a Baratheon and it was Tyrion who left her on their wedding night because she didn't want him. He still shares her bed of a night but she sleeps in a silken shift and he in a tunic, side by side in the featherbed without touching. Sansa knows she has disrupted his ways—he is no longer free to go to whores of a night, he can no longer sleep naked, as was his custom before his marriage. His squire had let that slip a few days after their marriage, leading Tyrion to shush him hastily and rush him from the room.

In Sansa's wedding bed, in reality, she does not lie with her husband properly. There is nothing beneath the sheets and Sansa's maidenhood remains intact. Shae, her maid, tells her that the castle whispers of how the Imp cannot take his lady wife. Sansa doesn't miss the way Shae cannot quite hide her smile at this but she doesn't comment. She simply silently makes a note of it, remembering to be even more careful about anything she might say around her maid, unwilling to follow the same path as her father.

Not that she can say much anyway. Her lady mother and lord father had shared almost everything in their union, Sansa knew from what she had seen between them in Winterfell. But in King's Landing, where she cannot trust anyone apart from herself, she cannot share burdens, secrets and thoughts with her husband because he is the enemy. She is a wolf, he is a lion and if she lets her guard down his mouth will be around her throat.

They don't go to bed together either, which makes it easier not to mourn the lack of relationship between the two of them. Sansa retires about eleven, crawling beneath the covers and dozing uneasily until she hears the thick wooden door opening and closing with a crash. Every morning he asks if he disturbed her and she always says no because she doesn't want him to close the door quietly. She likes to wake up and know it's Tyrion coming to her bed, not Joffrey, because she trusts Tyrion to keep his word and not lay a hand on her.

However tonight is a beautiful night, she thinks, as she sits near to the balcony, looking out over the city that is illuminated in the light of the moon. In the night, with only a silver gleam, King's Landing could actually be a beautiful city but Sansa knows the truth—it is rotten to the core. She dismissed Shae in the early hours of the evening, mistrusting the girl, and now she sits alone with a glass of wine on the table beside her and the doll her father gave her when they first arrived in the city in her lap. She doesn't have anything else that he left to her, having outgrown any gowns and her possessions having been replaced. Sometimes she wishes she could have kept the grey and white cloak she wore at her wedding because, although it came from the Queen, it reminded her of her family and Winterfell and the North—where she belongs.

She jumps violently when the door to the chambers opens, tossing the doll onto the table and upturning her wine. The glass shatters and when she finally looks up her shift it splattered with the rich burgundy of her drink. But it is Tyrion standing over her, not Joffrey as she feared. He's back early, she realises as she meets his green and black gaze with relief.

"I'm sorry, my Lord, I she begins to apologise, all the courtesies she learnt at her mother's knee rushing back to her without much thought.

"Hush," Tyrion says, holding out a hand to her and assisting her to her feet. She blushes as she rises, her white shift stained and clinging to her form. It's too small, really, for it came from Winterfell with her but she doesn't ask for anything new of her husband unless it is suggested. The less she relies on him, the more of a Stark she is but she can see Tyrion's gaze flickering over her and she wishes she had asked him for more because the swell of her breasts cannot quite be contained and there are a good two inches of her leg on show. "Are you alright?"

"Fine, my Lord," she says quietly, resuming her seat and looking at her knees, "I apologise for the wine and the glass."

Tyrion waves her apologies away as he steps over the mess of glass shards and the pool of wine. It looks a little like blood in the pale moonlight but Sansa has seen too much blood in her short time in the South to believe it. She simply looks at her pale hands in her lap.

"It is only a glass, my Lady," Tyrion tells her, hoisting himself up into the chair opposite her and fixing his gaze on her, "I must apologise for startling you."

"No, My Lord," Sansa replies quickly, "You are just much early than I expected."

Tyrion is silent for a moment and Sansa can hear the sounds of the poor in Fleabottom drifting up through the window, breaking the quiet of the night. She longs for the sounds of Winterfell, the chill of the North, the rustle of trees in the Godswood. Not the Godswood at King's Landing though—she misses the dark, cool depths of the Winterfell Godswood where her father would retreat, where she, Arya, Robb and Jon had played as children.

"You need new clothes," Tyrion breaks the silence between them, "You can ask me for anything, Sansa. It is my duty."

"I wouldn't want to trouble you, my Lord," Sansa says but her voice comes out as more of a whisper.

"Nonsense," Tyrion says, reaching over for the jug of wine, "Another glass, my Lady? I promise to try not to startle you this time."

Sansa accepts a new glass and sips the spicy wine, listening to Tyrion as he starts talking about the Dornish wine they are drinking and how to identify the taste, how it is made. He digresses, telling her about Dorne and the Martells and Sansa finds herself listening eagerly despite herself, drinking in the knowledge.

"You are very well-read, my Lord," she says once he has finished and she is imagining the rocky area with the desert and the heat. It sounds like a dream to her, so far from King's Landing and she half-wishes that she could see it.

"I apologise," Tyrion says slightly stiffly, pausing to drink more wine, "I did not mean to bore you—"

"Oh, but you did not," Sansa cuts in, forgetting herself for a moment, "It was fascinating—I'm sorry, my Lord, I did not mean to interrupt."

She looks down again, wondering what caused her to forget her place around him. She is not his friend, she is his enemy and she shouldn't want to talk to him. But she _does_. He speaks to her kindly—although Sansa doesn't know why she expected otherwise, he has never been anything but caring to her—and he tells her of things she has never heard before and it's so much more interesting than the idle gossip of the Red Keep.

"No, no," Tyrion says, looking at her through measured eyes, "It is good to see another side to you than that meek little girl I have become used to. A wall of icy courtesy is rather hard to deal with after such a long time."

Sansa flushes this time and Tyrion chuckles as he sees this. It's strange how a throaty chuckle can ring out from such a little man, she reflects, and stays quiet. She hasn't really _spoken_ to Tyrion before and it's surprisingly pleasant, not that she would ever admit it. Much preferable to Joffrey too, for she knows that Joffrey would fuck her raw, regardless of what she wants, and he would beat her for breaking a glass rather than accepting her unwillingness to be touched and reacting calmly as his Uncle Imp had. He wouldn't sit with her and tell her about far flung places or treat her gently, as Tyrion is doing now.

"Could you tell me more?" Sansa finds herself asking hesitantly without consciously making the decision, "If it's no trouble, my Lord."

The last bit is added as an afterthought when Sansa remembers who she is with and where she is. Tyrion slides down from his chair and waddles over to the bed, picking up the red and gold robe that is lying across the foot. He makes his way back to Sansa slowly, awkwardly heaving himself onto a footrest to drape the warmth around Sansa's shoulders.

"It is no trouble, Sansa," he says, lurching back to the ground as Sansa draws the velvet around herself, "And my name is Tyrion."

He shuffles back to his seat and settles himself down as a cool breeze sends the curtains fluttering, billowing up to expose the city further. Sansa finds herself curling up, abandoning the more formal position she had assumed at Tyrion's arrival. Septa Mordane always drilled into her that a young lady simply does not tuck her feet beneath her in the presence of a man but Sansa is tired and warm with the wine in her blood and she knows that Tyrion is unlikely to care.

"What would you like to hear about?" Tyrion asks, pouring himself another glass of wine as his ruby ring catches the flickering candle light, "I can tell you about the Free Cities, or the Targaryen reign or the dragons... What would it please you to hear?"

"The dragons," Sansa says quietly, a secret thrill coursing through her. She has heard whispers of the last Targaryen across the Narrow Sea with three dragons who could save her from the hell that is the Baratheon reign if Robb fails.

And so Tyrion talks, telling her of the dragons and their names and their histories. In this hour, as the shadows grow longer and the candles burn lower, Sansa feels her heartbeat triple in speed, as though Tyrion is confiding his secrets to her. Dragons have become illicit talk with Joffrey flying into wild rages over the Targaryen girl and her three dragon-children. No one dares to utter her name in his hearing so hearing Tyrion talking openly about the Mother of Dragons and the great beasts sends shivers down Sansa's spine.

He only quiets when the candles are stuttering and he sighs as he kneads his legs, obviously stiff from sitting so still as he spoke to her.

"It is late, we should retire," he says with a small smile at her as he rubs his stubby fingers against his stunted legs, "Come, my Lady."

Sansa unfurls her own aching muscles and rises to her feet, clutching her robe around herself. She is tired for being awake so unusually late but Tyrion has spoken for over an hour, fascinating her with all that he said.

"Thank you, my Lord—Tyrion," she corrects as he looks at her. His name feels strange on her tongue but also strangely natural. It doesn't really make sense but everything in King's Landing makes no sense so she doesn't question it.

"I shall find you my favourite book on dragons tomorrow," Tyrion promises, leading the way to the featherbed, "It has some wonderful illuminated illustrations."

"Thank you," Sansa says quietly as she draws back the richly embroidered covers on their bed and then casts the robe across the back of a chair.

Tyrion is fumbling with his doublet and breeches, his back to her, as Sansa sits cross legged on her side of the bed, gathering the thick fabric in her lap. The candle on her bedside table is stuttering, the wax nearly all melted and Sansa blows it out. When she turns, Tyrion is clambering into the bed, wincing from the cramps in his legs.

"Thank you," she says again, before he turns to blow his own candles out, "For tonight."

Tyrion gives her a small smile that makes his half a nose look more gruesome than it actually is but Sansa doesn't shy away. She has seen worse disfigurements since her journey South—far worse.

"It was no trouble, Sansa," Tyrion tells her once he has plunged most of the room into darkness, the only light coming from the flickering candles on the other side of the room, "It was very enjoyable."

* * *

Tyrion arrives in their chambers earlier the next night, when Shae is still present and Sansa is sewing in her chair. She is trying to embroider cushion covers for the room but she struggles to stop herself from stitching the direwolf of Stark or the Godswood, all of which would deem her a traitor if someone saw them.

Sansa rises as her husband enters, thankful she is wearing a gown of deep ruby that fits her and she has not upturned anything glass. She bows her head respectfully as Tyrion waddles up to her, holding a heavy book in his short arms.

"Go," he tells Shae, barely sparing her a glance as he motions for Sansa to sit, "I brought you the book, my Lady. Here."

Sansa sets her sewing aside as Tyrion places the tome in her lap, flipping through the thick pages until he lands on an illumination of a grey-green dragon with wide wings spread widely over Westeros.

"This is the last dragon seen in Westeros," he begins, pointing to the picture and he begins to talk to her again, telling her all about the history. Sansa notices Shae leaving, a look of displeasure on her face but she turns her attention back to Tyrion, too interested to care about her maid.

The sup in their chambers in private, dining on roasted duck and Dornish wine and afterwards they sit on the balcony itself, watching the city as evening falls and the moon rises in the sky. Tyrion tells her about how the Targaryens built the city and how it was made for escaping and Sansa finds her tongue having a life of its own as she tells him about Winterfell and how it was built for climbing—or so she had believed until Bran's fall.

Tyrion touches her arm when she mentions her brother's accident and Sansa appreciates the gesture before she wonders what is happening to her. She has stayed alive in King's Landing by constructing a frozen facade of pleasantries and guarding what she really thinks from everyone. But, in one rising and setting of the sun, Tyrion has managed to make her thaw slightly.

And from then on, their evenings together become a tradition. Tyrion brings her new books from the personal library of Varys and they talk until Sansa tires or it becomes late. It makes the sharing of the bed more bearable because it's no longer like sharing a bed with a stranger and she _knows_ Tyrion now. He knows her too—he brings her lemon cakes on some afternoons and lemon water for her to sample, her favourite kind of wine for after dinner. He sends a dressmaker to her and she finds herself provided with new smallclothes, new gowns, new shifts.

The little gestures touch Sansa more than she cares to admit. She has grown used to Tyrion's face too—it's hard to find his disfigurements as upsetting as she once had now she knows more of the man and his interests, his beliefs.

He starts to touch her too and she welcomes it. She doesn't shy away from him as she did in the early days of their marriage, finding the brush of his stubby fingers against the back of her hand, along her arm, across her cheek to be comforting. It makes her feel a little less like a baby thrown into the perilous waters of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea and she encourages it, despite her shown ability to disguise who she is behind the courtesies.

And one night she touches him first, reaching over to place her long, elegant hand over his when he talks of the horrific battle of Blackwater. She can sense his discomfort at talking about the loss of his nose and she automatically reaches out to soothe as he so often does for her. He looks at her in surprise, barely able to conceal it but he places another hand over hers. They sit for a long moment, Sansa feeling his golden rings press into her hand. It's the first prolonged human contact she has had with any kind of affection since Ice kissed her father's neck.

She tells him about the abuse she felt at the hand of the King's Guard that night, talking haltingly to her knees but he tilts her chin up and she sees fury burn in his mismatched eyes.

"I will never let them harm you again, Sansa," he promises her and she believes him despite the vows she made herself about never trusting anyone but herself.

* * *

Shae is dismissed within days and Sansa finds Tyrion unusually uncommunicative on the subject but she picks up whispers from around the Red Keep. She hears many things, each as unsavoury as the last—Shae was a whore, Shae was Tyrion's whore, Shae was spying on her. Sansa doesn't know who to believe so she carries on with the knowledge Shae has been sent from the city. Nothing changes between her and Tyrion—they sup together and then they talk or sometimes he reads to her before they retire to bed. Often Sansa awakes to find him reading in the night—he doesn't sleep well, she knows—and it's oddly reassuring, as though he stands guard over her.

But then their presence is requested at a feast and Sansa finds herself being forced into the company of the entire Lannister clan. Tyrion seems to sense her distress as he neglects to leave her during the day, sending for a plate of lemon cakes, strawberry tarts and slivers of orange around the middle of the day for them to share.

"You are always so kind to me, my Lord," is all Sansa says when she sits down on the balcony with him, her cheeks flushed from the heat of her bath and her red hair falling in damp waves around her face. She feels strange being around Tyrion without her hair being styled in some way, be it an elaborate style or a simple braid and it is a little like being naked in front of him but she shakes the feelings away.

Tyrion nods to acknowledge this but Sansa sees how he looks faintly pleased and this and she smiles to herself.

Her maids dress her in one of her new gowns and Sansa takes great care in picking out a dress of deep blue silk that splits to reveal a burnt red. She wears the Tully colours with pride, a silent act of defiance to remind people of who she is. It would be far too risky to don the grey and white of House Stark but Tully is fair game, really. She toes the line, not wanting to enrage Cersei too much, but she revels in the dress, spreading the skirts out to admire to two colours of her mother's house.

"You look lovely, my Lady," Tyrion announces when he waddles in with his squire to find Sansa stood by the windows, a glass of honeyed milk in one hand as her maid pulls auburn hair into place.

"Thank you," Sansa says with a small smile, "You look very handsome, my Lord."

Tyrion doesn't answer this, and Sansa hopes it is because he understands that her courtesies are too deeply rooted for her to abandon. He holds out a hand to her and Sansa shakes free of her maid and approaches him, linking her long fingers through his and shortening her strides to match his.

It's odd, being announced as Lady Lannister but she just squeezes Tyrion's hand more tightly as they enter the hall. This is worlds apart from the life she imagined at King's Landing but she cannot stop the growing affection she feels for Tyrion, the way she has begun to place more and more faith in him as he seems to be doing with her.

She is not even brought down when Cersei openly glares at Sansa as she takes her seat at the high table, sitting next to Tyrion for the serving of the first course.

"I think you look beautiful in the Tully colours," Tyrion whispers as conversation swirls around them, "But I don't think my sweet sister agrees. You grow bold, Lady Sansa."

"I apologise, my Lord," Sansa says softly, swirling her spoon around the thick soup that has been set before her.

"Don't apologise," Tyrion tells her with a smile, "I think it becomes you. No one can mistake the Stark steel in you now."

They decline to dance, Sansa understanding how humiliating it would be for her husband. They remain seated on the dais instead, Sansa watching other couples swirl around the floor as Tyrion taps his fingers against his goblet and seems lost in thought. She doesn't particularly mind—they couldn't have a conversation in the midst of the entire court, and she is used to her husband retreating to himself.

She doesn't notice the King's arrival until it's too late and Joffrey is stood over them.

"Rumour has it you're still a maiden," he says causing Sansa to flush, unable to keep the blood from rushing to her cheeks at his openness that is more rude than not, "Apparently my Uncle Imp doesn't have it in him. Maybe I should come to your chambers and show him how it's done."

Sansa feels herself grow stiff at this, clutching her skirts in one hand but Tyrion reaches over and takes her hand in his and she remembers that he is there. She feels herself shivering and tries to hide it from Joffrey, unwilling for him to know how much he scares her because she is a Stark and he cannot harm her any longer without dooming himself.

_I am a Lady of the North_, _born of ice_ she thinks to herself, _The North remembers and we shall have our revenge. Robb will give me your head_.

"Go and find your dog to play with, boy," Tyrion says coldly and Joffrey only sneers are his Uncle before he turns and marches off the dais, "The Gods help Margaery."

Sansa pities the Tyrell girl more than she can express in words and she feels too shell shocked to talk anyway. Joffrey lurks like a shadow, ready to overwhelm anything even slightly good that might happen to her and Tyrion seems to sense that she has had enough.

"Let us return to our chambers, my Lady," he says, easing himself to the floor and escorting her through the room, ignoring the hush that follows them as the crowds part to let them pass.

Sansa is pleased to be away from the staring, the whispers and Joffrey most of all. She sinks straight to their bed as soon as the heavy wooden door closes, uncaring that she sits on Tyrion's side of the mattress. She looks down at the floor, closing her eyes to block out the twist of Joffrey's smile and the glint in his eyes because she sometimes wakes from nightmares of that look, cold and shaking.

"He can't hurt you, Sansa," Tyrion promises and Sansa's eyes snap open, for she had been too focussed on her thoughts to notices his approach. He hands her a glass of wine and she sips it as her husband watches, stood in front of her with the candle light making his shadow elongate behind him.

She closes her eyes but she can smell the pinewood scent of Tyrion from the oil he puts in his bathing water and she can hear his breathing so Joffrey's menacing face has faded in her mind's eye. The feeling of safety crashes around her and Sansa cannot stop herself from feeling completely protected now she's with the Imp.

"Tyrion," she says quietly, setting the half-full glass aside, balancing it on top of his pile of books, "I know...I...You promised not to touch me until I said I was ready. I know it's been months and I understand if you don't want me any longer but—if you want—I am...ready."

Sansa knows how halting she sounds and she fists her hands in her skirts in her nerves. She's scared of his rejection, for this feels like offering her heart on a silver platter, but she's also nervous for what happens if he says yes and they lay together as man and wife.

"Sansa," Tyrion says, his voice twisting but Sansa can feel his hardness as he accidentally brushes against her to lay a hand on her knee, "I would not wish for you to rush into something because of my nephew—"

"I want you to have my maidenhood," Sansa cuts in before he can finish, almost desperate as he appears to be unwilling, "I want you to have it, I know you, I—"

Tyrion places one gentle finger over her lips and then cups her face in his hands, looking her in the eye as he asks how sure she is. She only nods and Tyrion places a soft kiss at the corner of her lips before fully on the mouth.

Sansa has never been kissed before, not properly, and she thinks that she might actually understand what it's about as she leans forward to return it, hesitant and unsure as her hands flutter nervously. But Tyrion is tender as he eases her onto her back and pulls himself onto the bed, struggling with the laces on her dress before he frees her from the silken confines. His hands are light against her skin, like he fears hurting her and Sansa is relieved that he appears as nervous as she, feeling less self-conscious as she fumbles with the ties on his breeches.

From then on, it happens quite fast and it is not actually bad even if it is nothing like Sansa had anticipated.

If her lady mother gave her maidenhood to a solemn-faced stranger, Sansa gives hers to the Imp who is renowned for his clever tongue but not so widely known for his clever fingers. And he is gentle with her, keeping a black eye and a green eye on her face and wincing if she does, apologising quietly as he stills within her to wait for any pain to pass.

He is even more gentle afterwards, when Sansa tries to turn away. His stumpy fingers close around her wrist and he is lying on his side facing her when she rolls over as he clearly wants her to. There is an ache between her thighs that she had not even thought to imagine before and Sansa is torn between acting like the woman grown she is meant to be and crying like a little girl at the confusion that bubbles inside her—she has given her maidenhood to the Imp of Lannister who she shouldn't like but _does_ and she doesn't know what to do.

"Are you alright?" Tyrion asks her and Sansa only nods before realising she should actually speak.

"Yes, my Lord, I—" she begins but Tyrion silences her with a look and Sansa hastily stops her words.

"I thought we were past all this, Sansa," he says with a gentle tone that softens the sting of his words, "My name—"

"—Is Tyrion," Sansa finishes in a voice that is little more than a whisper, "I'm sorry, I just... I..."

"Hush," Tyrion says soothingly, sitting up and lifting her silk shift from the end of the bed where it had been cast, "I imagine you are quite emotional and conflicted right now."

"It's not that, my—Tyrion," Sansa catches herself in time as her husband helps her pull the fabric down over her head and around her body, "I just... I find..."

" A wolf amongst lions," Tyrion says with a small smile that distorts his face, "No, I do understand but for now we can sleep. The depths of night is no time for such serious conversations."

Sansa nods as she curls beneath the covers. Tyrion has made it clear that he is not going to turn his back to her to sleep as he is prone to do, meaning she is unable to turn away. She lies still, stiffly holding her body rigid until she feels his hesitant warm hand at her shoulder.

"Did I hurt you, Sansa?"

Sansa considers denying it, but she had caught sight of the blood that spotted the sheets and she knows that Tyrion will see it in the morning, meaning it is rather fruitless to lie. And then there is the fact that she has agreed to be honest with him over the course of their last two months together.

"A little," she admits, "But it is not unbearable and it's normal, is it not?"

There is a fraction of seconds pause but then Tyrion lets out his trade-mark dry chuckle that echoes through their chambers.

"Sansa, have you looked at me?" he asks her once he has sobered somewhat, "I am the deformed, disfigured dwarf of Lannister. The only women—aside from you—that I have had have been whores. What do you think _I_ know about taking a girl's maidenhood?"

"You know about as much as me then," Sansa mutters softly, pulling the heavy quilts tightly around her and tucking them under her chin, the golden thread scratching against her throat.

Tyrion seems to have nothing to say as he only pats her shoulder gently and Sansa finds herself succumbing to sleep, waking with her forehead resting on the Imp's shoulder as he snores softly in her ear, one arm resting on her waist.

For some unexplainable reason, Sansa finds that she is actually content in his embrace, certainly the most content she has been in her entire time in King's Landing.

* * *

"Wine, Sansa?" Tyrion offers and Sansa turns away from the large windows to see him lifting the wine jug enquiringly at her.

"Thank you," she says, turning back to the view over the gardens of the Red Keep. Prince Tommen is outside with a stray cat and Sansa finds herself remembering Arya and her determination to catch cats because of her water dancing teacher. A reminder of what is lost to her.

She hears Tyrion pouring her a goblet of wine and then waddling over to hand her the cup. She turns away from the windows and sits down opposite him at the table where he has been leaning over his books. She reaches out to brush some of his golden Lannister hair from his eyes and he looks up at her with a smile.

Over the last few days they have been adapting to their new roles. Sansa no longer cares in the slightest about the height difference, nor the mismatched eyes or the waddle. He calms her when she worries, talks to her like he appreciates her for who she is as opposed to the way she sings her pleasantries, sleeps, albeit restlessly, with a short arm thrown over her, protecting her as she dreams. For the first time Sansa feels able to breathe without worrying in King's Landing and she is growing to trust Tyrion. Maybe not fully—Sansa isn't sure if she can ever trust fully again—but he has more of her trust than anyone else and it seems more than enough for him.

And she provides the companionship that he needs. Sansa knows much of his loneliness from his penchant for whores, which he appears to have abandoned. It works, oddly enough, despite the fact they had marriage forced upon them by his father and sister for the purpose of securing the Lannister's Winterfell.

Yet Sansa worries. She fears a Lannister victory, for then she knows her brother and mother will be crushed for orchestrating a rebellion but now she has to fret over a Northern triumph as well, as she doesn't know what Robb will do to Tyrion. In Robb's eyes, her husband is the Imp who he believes guilty of crime upon crime. And Sansa doesn't think she can bear to see her husband hurt. Now she has lain with him—more than once too—she knows she cannot see more death of those she cares about.

And she does care about Tyrion, more than she cares to admit.

"You need to stop worrying," Tyrion tells her, a little like he can read her thoughts, "You will worry yourself to death."

"The only people who have no worries are children," Sansa says, absently turning the pages of one of Tyrion's volumes on the history of Westeros, "Those who are untouched by war."

Tyrion looks at her then, sadness written over his scarred face and Sansa offers him one of her delicate court smiles. He sees right through it, Sansa knows he does, but he makes no comment as he leans back in his chair and swigs from his own goblet.

"Did you have something to ask me, my Lady?" he asks as Sansa's gaze wanders to the window, where the sun is beginning to sink below the horizon. The sky is more of a soft lilac than blue now, wisps of pink mingling with the other colours and Sansa finds herself missing the ferocity of the Northern sunsets.

"Are all Southern sunsets this _tame_?" she asks, barely registering his question because there's a feeling of homesickness that twists in her stomach like a knife.

Tyrion follows her gaze, looking at the descent of the sun and the rise of the moon. There is silence for a moment, as the colours of the sky twist together and then Tyrion closes his book to make his way to her side.

"It is quite a sight, though," Tyrion says once he is stood next to her and Sansa feels like a giant next to him, "Do you think? Although I assume the Northern sunsets are far more beautiful."

Sansa remembers how the sky would spill red into the blue-grey, making it look like the more vengeful Gods had murdered and let their victim bleed into the sky. The North burnt as the sun set and sometimes it would make it look like everything was on fire with a kind of terrible beauty that captured the essence of the hard yet glorious North.

"It pales in comparison," she says as she remembers watching the sun sink with her whole family, Robb's arm around her shoulders and Rickon leaning at her side as Arya, Jon and Bran sat on the cold ground, uncaring of dirt, "It matters not, I know I'll never see a Northern sunset again, for my brother is a traitor and—"

Tyrion places a hand on her knee and effectively silences her. He looks up at her and Sansa ignores his mangled nose but focuses on the way he looks at her.

"You will see a Northern sunset again, Sansa," Tyrion says quietly but with steel in his voice, "I promise that I will see you North, to your home."

"The King will not let—" Sansa begins, refusing to allow the spark of hope to fill her but at the same time she feels like Winterfell is at her fingertips, if she reaches out she can touch it because her husband has said—

"I am your husband, not the King and I decide what to do with you," Tyrion tells her and in that moment, to Sansa, Tyrion is the tallest, most fearsome and most wonderful man in the seven kingdoms.

Sansa finds herself unable to express herself properly then, so she drops to her knees before him, her lavender skirts pooling around her as she reaches a height where she is smaller than him. The ground is oddly cold at her knees but she doesn't care as she places her hand into Tyrion's and squeezes gently.

"Why would you do this for me?" she asks him, her voice sounding almost broken to her own ears, "I have hardly been a good wife, my Lord and I didn't kneel at our wedding when you wanted me to and—"

"Hush, Sansa," Tyrion cuts in, touching her cheek with his free hand, "I don't blame you. You were—are—scarcely more than a child, a pawn in the game of thrones. I cannot hold it against you for being scared. Besides, you have provided me with some happiness in these dark days. What more could I want?"

"I embarrassed you," Sansa whispers, more to herself than anyone else but Tyrion chuckles.

"My height does that to me every day, Sansa," he says and Sansa feels him move his thumb over her knuckles softly.

Sansa leans against him then, pressing her face to his neck as he drops an arm around her shoulders. He is all she has in the South and he is the one thing she doesn't regret. In the storm of swords and treachery around them, she needs something to hold onto because otherwise she is lost in a den of lions.

So she clings to him and he holds her tightly, pressing his lips to her hairline as night falls outside and Sansa finds herself warmed by his promises. She has many regrets from her time in King's Landing, but growing to trust Tyrion—her husband, the Imp, Halfman—is not one of them.

* * *

**Authors Notes: **So, I haven't really written in months and this is the first time I've attempted Game of Thrones so please _please_ be gentle! I hope you enjoyed it and I'd be flattered if you liked it enough to favourite, but please leave me a review if you do so!

Also, nothing is mine but the plot—everything is the property of George RR Martin.


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